Flickering Light
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: It started with the letters. Well, actually, no, it started with Mycroft's phone call- Sebastian Moran had escaped. But after then, a week after then, that's when it really started. That's when the letters had started appearing. (post Reichenbach) rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1 The Letters from No-one

Flickering Light

**Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and, in this case, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. What also belong to them are the small references to The Reichenbach Fall. Thank you so much BBC! I owe them so much for bringing these characters to my life! The story however is completely made up!**

_A/n: this is the sequel to my first story __**Shadows **__so if you are reading this and haven't read my other story, I would strongly recommend you did. I will be referring to it often and it will stop you getting confused. **However** you can just read this one if you want to, I think I finished Shadows in a way that it doesn't really matter much._

_But anyway! Here is the sequel as promised guys! I really hope it was worth it and you enjoy the first chapter! X _

Chapter 1- The Letters from No-one

JW

It started with the letters.

Well, actually, no, it started with Mycroft's phone call- Sebastian Moran had escaped.  
But after then, a week after then, that's when it really started.  
That's when the letters had started appearing.

The first one came the week after I was released from the hospital, and after limping back to our flat carrying that week's groceries, I'd spotted it stuffed rather roughly in the letter box. I remember being curious, dropping the Tesco's bags on the floor and pulling it out, unfolding it, squinting at the barely legible words.

_Burn you._

Needless to say it sent shivers down the length of my spine, and brought back more than enough painful reminders.  
I'd ran up the stairs as quickly as my injured thigh could allow, shopping swinging painfully from my wrists.  
"Sherlock!" I'd yelled at the empty room, waving the paper around wildly, "Sherlock I've found something!"  
And he'd appeared from his bedroom, immediately snatching the paper from me. He'd unfolded it; stared at the words, face impassive.  
"What is it?" I'd asked, shaken.  
"A warning,"  
And he'd tossed it in the bin without a backwards glance. I didn't manage to get anything else out of him for the rest of the day, and spent most of it putting the shopping away and reading the newspaper for the umpteenth time.

The second one Sherlock had found, _exactly_ a week later. I had just come out of the shower and got dressed and I remember hearing him swear quietly from his place at the kitchen table.

"What is it?" I'd asked sharply, going over to him.

"Nothing," he'd said quickly, I'd seen his hands move, and my eyes had zeroed in on the piece of crinkled paper he was holding in them.

"What's that?"

Before I could look at it, he'd thrown that one in the bin too.

But I'd fished it out later.

The same words.

_Burn you._

By the time the third one came, I was seriously worried. It had been found in my bedroom, on the bedside cabinet. The same words.

_Burn you._

We knew who it was, Sebastian Moran. And we had a pretty good idea why he was doing it. It was just unnerving. Like being in the dark, flinching at every noise you heard. With every one, he was getting closer, more personal. The letter box, the kitchen, the bedside cabinet. Closer and closer. How the hell was he doing it?

I sat at the table, cradling a steaming cup of tea. The hot vapour warmed my face and was a relief from the sub- zero temperatures we were currently feeling in the flat, due to Sherlock 'accidently' blowing up the boiler in mid- winter.

I mean, really, Sherlock didn't just accidently blow things up. He's a bloody genius, for Christ sake! He knew exactly what he was doing when he added 10 grams of potassium to the water in the boiler. Even I knew that!

But, in any case, I'm freezing!

In front of me, the latest letter sat, the forth one, staring at the ceiling. We'd found it on Sherlock's pillow. I stared at it for a moment.  
"What are we going to do Sherlock?" I said finally, my greatest worry finally coming through.  
He looked up at me blankly, from where he sat opposite me. Well he thought it was blank. I knew him well enough to see the stress this was putting on him in his eyes.  
"What do you mean?" he asked calmly, silvery eyes fixed on me. I sighed.  
"You know bloody well what I mean, Sherlock," I indicated to the letters, "these! They're from Moran aren't they?"  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes together.  
"Most likely,"  
"why are you so scared of him?" I wondered, eyes narrowed. That was one thing that struck me about the whole 'situation'. Sherlock was acting scared. And if anything, that was what scared me the most.  
He glared, "I. am. Not. Scared,"  
"what do you call this then?" I waved vaguely at the space around us, and feeling immediately stupid.  
"this," he said, mimicking my hand movements, "Is air, mainly composed of oxygen, nitrogen and-"  
"don't be a smart arse," I said through clenched teeth, my temper, a lot shorter than usual, coming to an abrupt end, "I can tell that you're worried!"  
He sighed again, running a hand through his curls, "worried, a little, scared, absolutely not,"  
"why?" I asked curiously. It was not like Sherlock to 'worry' about an escaped murderer. He usually hailed a break out, as a way of venting boredom.

Another reason why this situation made me uneasy.  
I reached out; picked up the letter again. The words were the same as the others.

_Burn you._

"He sounds like Moriarty," I mumble, suppressing a shudder.

"I think that's the idea," Sherlock said, snatching it from my hands. He crinkled it up into a ball, and launched it across the room to the bin. Amazingly, it went in perfectly, "he's trying to intimidate us, he wants to finish what Moriarty started,"

"What, destroy you?" I asked dubiously, "but you're still in hiding, sort of, most people still think you're -" I paused, swallowing painfully at the memory, "think you're dead," I finished in a whisper.

He glanced up at me, eyes haunted, but said nothing.

"What?" I felt incredibly self- conscious.

He appeared to be thinking, chewing on his lips.

"What?" I urged, irritated.

He shook his head minutely, "nothing,"

I stared at him for a moment, and then decided to drop it, knowing I wasn't going to get an answer. Sherlock got up from the table and headed across the room.

I sipped my tea gently. It was the perfect temperature now, and at least my fingers weren't frozen anymore. I silently cursed the lack of heating.

I looked down at the table again, to the space where the letter had sat. I thought back to the last three weeks, when it had all started. The worry, the uneasiness, Sherlock's strange silence.

"What are we going to do?" I repeated again, staring into my cup.

He was silent for ages; I started to wonder if he had left the room. But then:

"There's nothing we can do, not yet, but we will John, we will,"

_A/n: Omg I'm actually scared at how this first chapter turned out! I hope that it's ok and that you enjoyed it! A review or two would be lovely! Just let me know what you think! Any ideas, comments, etc. are welcome! And I will try to stay in past tense this time (thanks for pointing that out in my last story alpacamama):D_

_Oh and please don't expect really fast updates like Shadows. This may take longer because I'm going to need to do lots and lots of revision for my maths exam in January._

Anyway, a review or two would be lovely! Xxx


	2. Chapter 2 The Reasons Why

Chapter 2- The Reasons Why

_A/n: here is the next chapter! I hope you are enjoying it so far! This one is pretty short so I apologise for that, but I hope its ok! Xxx _

SH

The room was empty. Silent.

John was still asleep; a quick glance at the clock told me it was 4.30 in the morning. He shouldn't be up for a while yet.  
I lay on the sofa, head on the arm, staring at the ceiling with determination.

On my left arm, I had placed 2 nicotine patches, and was about to stick on a third.  
The result was perfect, helping me focus my buzzing mind on the things that were important.  
I thought back to yesterday. The forth letter had come. John had asked me why I was so worried, or _scared_ as he put it.  
I hadn't told him.

I hadn't told him how hard it had been to track and bring down Sebastian Moran.  
He was, well- had been Moriarty's right hand man. The one he had trusted the most. The one who 'got his hands dirty' for Moriarty.  
I closed my eyes and pictured him in front of me.  
He was an ex-soldier like John, only with none of John's compassion- or medical abilities. He was one of those guys who looked made for battle, tall and lean and strong with cold grey, emotionless eyes and a map of scars adorning his face and arms, telling the story of his past more effectively than he could himself.  
And his aim with a gun was murderously accurate. I've never seen anyone who could shoot as accurately as him. With exception to John, I reminded myself, remembering how John had managed to hit the cabbie in the heart through two windows a meter away from each other.  
But Moran- he was exceptional. He _never_ missed.  
He had been the one given the most important jobs- like holding the rifle primed to explode John in the swimming pool scene.

Like the rifle aimed at John ready to shoot if I didn't jump.

I shuddered slightly, remembering how my mind had completely jammed when I had realised that. How close John had come to dying because of me.  
I hadn't told John that. Not yet. How could I?

And what was more, I found it difficult to read Moran. It was like a strange barrier, preventing me from reading his life like a book. I've only ever felt that once before. And that had been with Irene Adler.

And then there were the letters. The notes. Always saying the same thing and always exactly a week apart. It was almost like he was counting down to something. What did they mean?

In my lap, under my clasped hands, another letter sat, still to be opened. It was the one Sky had given me when I had met her in Vauxhall Arches. I had put it in my coat pocket and forgotten about it until now.

I raised my head languidly and held up the letter in line with my eyes, unfolding it carefully.

_I will end this fairytale. Play with me. _

I stared at the words for a long time, my head in a rather disconcerting turmoil. _What did he mean?_

One thing I was certain of though- he was definitely trying to copy Moriarty.

I closed my eyes again, trying to make sense of the words. The reasons why he was doing this. Was John right? Was he trying to destroy me? Hadn't Moriarty already done that? Not many people knew I was alive. Just Lestrade, Molly, John (obviously), Sky, Mycroft and maybe a few police officers at NSY. As far as most of the world knew, I was still 'the fraudulent detective who took his own life' and my reputation was far from restored.

So what then, was he trying to do?

My eyes snapped open at the sound of the door opening, a little confused. John was awake? Surely I hadn't been in my mind palace for that long?  
I glanced at the clock again- 5.00?

I relaxed a little. John was up early.

"Nightmare?" I wondered vaguely, as his tentative footsteps padded over to the kitchen. I didn't turn my head.  
The footsteps faltered. I could almost imagine him turning around to face me awkwardly, clenching and unclenching his fists, nervous.  
"Uh yeah, kinda," he clears his throat, obviously embarrassed at being caught again.  
"Which one?" I sighed, realising that, as a friend, I really should ask.

There was a small pause.

"Um about- about- you know- uh you..."  
I grimaced to myself. Not only did that make me feel the twisting sensation in my stomach I always got when he mentioned _that, _but this time it was accompanied with an unhelpful reminder that Moran was in fact, John's would-be killer.

Killer...

_Oh Christ!_

I had to bite my lip to stop myself from gasping allowed, as the realisation hit me. The reason why.  
Moran _did_ want to finish what Moriarty started. But it wasn't to destroy me, Moriarty already did that.  
It was to kill John. And burn the heart out of me completely.

_A/n: erk sorry about the shortness of this chapter again! But I hope it was ok!_

_A review or two would really make my day so let me know what you think! X _


	3. Chapter 3 The Second Warning

Chapter 3- The Second Warning

_A/n: thank you to mvignal, emmasexual, ghost, Tom Paris, and SH, for all reviewing my last two chapters, I forgot to thank you last time! I hope you are all enjoying it so far!_

_Here is the next chapter. I hope its ok! Xxx _

In the rather unnerving silence of the flat, I sat in my armchair with a newspaper in hand, and my eyes fixed permanently on Sherlock.

He was lying on the sofa, but he was as silent and as unresponsive as a statue, his fingers steepled, eyes slightly glazed over, staring at the ceiling.

Just staring.

I cleared my throat, hoping to see a response to it.

No such luck.

Jesus I swear he wasn't even blinking.

Something, and I don't give a bloody damn what he said, was scaring him.

And it was definitely fear. I'd never seen him like this before. And I'd seen many of his moods. None of them like this.

After watching him silently for another 5 minutes, I decided to try to break the god awful silence that was filling the room, and slowly seeping under my skin.  
"What's wrong?" I tried, not all together expecting an answer.  
He glanced at me sideways, for the first time actually making eye contact. His eyes looked unfocused, as if he was thinking deeply about something. But, as I had predicted, no answer.  
"Sherlock?" I stared at him.

Really, this was just creepy. I didn't like it. I think I actually preferred bored Sherlock, shooting the wall, and wrecking the place, or manic Sherlock, pacing the room all day and night, or nocturnal Sherlock, playing the bloody violin at 3 stupid o'clock in the morning.

But this… I just didn't like this strange, silent, empty replacement.

I was just about to say so, when I sensed a sudden shift in his mood.  
Suddenly his eyes became more alert, his head snapped up, gaze fixed on the window.  
"Something's wrong," he said sharply.  
I blinked not really able to register his sudden and unexpected outburst, "sorry, what?"  
"Lestrade is outside- listen,"  
We both seemed to hold our breath, and I could faintly hear the distant sound of footsteps on the tarmac. They were quick and hurried. How he knew it was Lestrade I had no idea.  
Then the bell rang.  
"Single press, holding down for approximately 3 and a half seconds, maximum pressure on the first second," Sherlock whispered under his breath, so fast I could hardly hear it, "it's urgent,"

He fixed me with a stare that very clearly instructed me to go and get the door. Nothing new there- though that was quite relieving in a way.  
I got up and headed down to open the door.  
It was, indeed Lestrade, and his face was pale.  
"What's happened?" I croaked, not sure if I wanted to know.  
"We've got a new case," he began, " but it's not any normal case!" he said quickly, as I opened my mouth to say that no, Sherlock won't be able to take a case, "I just think you both need to see this,"  
_Christ that didn't sound good_.

I lead him upstairs to Sherlock, who was sitting up, alertly, a very big difference to the statue I had lived with all this week.  
"I assume this is about a new case, yes? Something that is linked to either John or I? It must be an obvious, or urgent link as you've come straight from the crime scene," Sherlock said immediately, reeling off everything on his mind. To be honest, although I usually rolled my eyes and told him to shut up when he did this, I found myself sighing with relief.  
Lestrade seemed to be recovering from this torrent of information.  
"Urrr yeah, yeah, it's linked to you guys," he said, quietly, "although I'm not sure what it means- look,"  
He held out his phone, and Sherlock snatched it from him, before I could so much as register the movement. I watched his face as; I saw his eyes widen for a minute second, and I leant over, squinting at the screen, before he could turn it away.  
"Oh god," I gasped- I just couldn't help my outburst.  
It was a picture of the body. A young man with a bullet through his heart. And when I say through his heart, I mean _straight_ through the centre of his heart.

And there was more. On his left forearm, someone had carved words, with a knife, they were branded in blood.

_Burn you._

There was no doubt whatsoever that it was the work of Moran, the message was meant for us.

He was stepping up his game.

I was pretty sure that that wasn't going to be the last body we encountered before we figured out what to do.  
"Who was he?" I whispered, seeing as Sherlock was again, unusually quiet.  
Lestrade appeared to be having a silent battle with himself, whether to say or not to say. He chewed on his lip. I watched him with growing apprehension.

And still he didn't say anything.

Finally, my patience broke.  
"For god's sake Greg!" I growled, "Just bloody tell us!"  
He sighed, closing his eyes.  
"His name was John," he said quietly, "John Evans,"  
Goose-bumps ran down my back and I suddenly felt Sherlock tense beside me, his hand tightened its grip on the phone, knuckles white.

"This is no coincidence," Sherlock said monotonously. I chanced a glance in his direction, and was startled to see worry and anxiety etched plainly on his face. And then he caught me looking, and it was gone.  
"Is it Moran?" Lestrade asked.  
Sherlock gave him the phone back.  
"Yes, it's Moran," His face was impassive; his eyes had that haunted look again.

Lestrade and I waited for him to say more- shed light on the subject like he always did when someone's motifs were unclear.

But nothing came.

"What shall I do?" Lestrade prompted, slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket.

"just- find out what gun the bullet came from, and see if there are any fingerprints, and keep an eye out- this won't be the last body if his letters are anything to go by,"

Lestrade nodded, "you know I will need to include Donovan in this don't you?"

Sherlock glared at him, "fine, fine, just don't tell her anything other than the basics, nothing about me,"

"I know, I'm not stupid,"

"I do get that idea," came the ready reply, face stony.

Lestrade sighed, and nodded to me.

"I'll send you everything I find out, alright?"

"Thanks," I smiled, and he left, the door swinging behind him.

As soon as he left, I made a beeline for the kitchen, with the idea of getting some much needed tea, and biscuits, hopefully.

Sherlock was still in the lounge, frozen again, staring absently at the carpet.

"Do you want tea?" I asked him.

"No,"

I made him one anyway, I knew he would drink it, and when I turned, I could almost see the tension rolling off him.

"I said no," he said irritably, as he saw the two cups in my hands. I rolled my eyes, and thrust the drink into his hands.

"Yeah, you always say no, Sherlock, I've learnt to ignore it,"

A tiny smile.

"Thank you John,"

I sat down next to him.

"So he's using- people now," I said slowly, "what are we going to do now?"

Silence.

"Can you answer me?"

More silence.

I swallowed painfully.

"The man was called John," I said croakily, "That was intentional wasn't it?"

A small grunt- it was an improvement at least.

"Was it a warning?"

Silence.

I couldn't get anything out of him for the rest of the night. Though that seemed to be a regular routine now.

_A/n: I hope its ok! A review or two would be lovely! Xxx _


	4. Chapter 4 Help

Chapter 4 – Help

_A/n: so I'm pretty sure this sequel won't last as long as Shadows did, which I think may be a good thing. Thanks to everyone who reviewed me last chapter, and to everyone else for actually reading it! I really am so grateful!_

_Anyway here is the next chapter, hope its ok! Xxx _

At 3.30 the morning after Lestrade had found the body, I left for Mycroft's office.

I hated seeing Mycroft. He was always overbearing, condescending and ridiculously insistent about my so called 'protection', and seeing him was a chore.

But, I suppose, desperate times called for desperate measures, and when I ever voluntarily saw my brother, I was pretty damn desperate.

I left early because that way I knew John was still asleep and probably still would be by the time I got back, and that saved me the hassle of explaining my actions to him.

At least that's what I was hoping for.

Mycroft was waiting for me when I got inside. He nodded his head at me and led me silently through the double doors and into his office.

And then he sat, and I sat opposite, and silence fell, both of us waiting for the other to cave in first.

To my great pleasure, it was Mycroft.

"I don't know what I can do Sherlock," he said finally, looking incredible wary.

I glared at him for a moment, before pinching the bridge of my nose with a sigh.

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't think you could help," I admitted, looking up at him again.

"Oh you're saying that now are you?" a sly smirk spread across his face and I shot him a look that should have clearly stated that I wanted to hit him. Now really wasn't the time for pride, or indeed, sibling rivalry, to get in the way. Not where John was concerned.

I'd promised myself that time in the hospital that I'd never let him get hurt again. And that promise was something I very well intended to live up to. Even if I had to consult Mycroft to do it. I suppressed a grimace.

"It's not funny; I just need your help!" I said, irritated, "I know you can!"

He threw his hands up in the air exasperated, "what can I do that im not already doing? I have a full team watching every surveillance camera in London 24/7, and a whole other team watching John 24/7- Grade 3- active by the way, I have people out there looking for anything that may point us in Moran's direction, but nothings turning up! All we have so far are the things he's given us! The letters, and now a body! All checked for fingerprints, DNA, but nothings turned up there either! And really Sherlock, I do have a job to do as well!"

"Oh and you call that helpful do you?" I retorted icily.

He raised his eyebrows condescendingly at me.

I sighed. Perhaps that was a bit not good.

"Sorry," I forced.

Silence fell again. This time more awkward than last time.

"Look," I said, voice subdued, "I can't lose John, not again, not like last time,"

Mycroft sighed, stood up and went over to the window, watching the many cars and crowds of people drift by. I watched him silently.

"Have you told him yet- about Moran?" he asked calmly.

I knew what he was talking about.

"No," I whispered.

"You have to tell him Sherlock, you know he won't be happy if you don't," he turned to survey me and I realised what he was doing.

I restrained myself from shouting out angrily at him reading me. I bloody hated it when he read me.

"There's more isn't there? That's why you're so scared," Mycroft announced finally.

"I am not scared!" I snapped.

He cocked his head to one side. I gave in.

"Moran wants to kill him," I sighed, "that's what he'd planning to do- that's why the man he shot had the same name,"

Mycroft's expression cleared. He nodded, eyes closed.

"Of course, Moriarty's last game- John,"

He came back over to the desk, where I still sat.

"You have. To tell. Him," he said, putting deliberate pauses between words.

"What am I to say?" I matched his tone, voice clipped.

"Tell him the truth, all of it. You owe him as much-," his rose again, challenging me, "he needs to know. You can't keep this from him- it's his own life you're messing with here,"

"But I don't want to put him in danger,"

"Believe me Sherlock; you're putting him in more danger by not knowing,"

I lifted my head from where it had been resting in my hands, and surveyed the surroundings. His office. It was too neat, too tidy for me.

"Moran was so difficult to track last time," I said absently, though Mycroft already knew, "he's good, very good. At least then, the surprised had been my advantage. This time, he has the advantage. He's playing with us. Making us nervous. I don't like being in the dark,"

It was Mycroft's turn to pinch the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed.

"What do you know so far?"

"I know he's close, very close, he knows his way around as he can get away pretty quickly," I began immediately, "all the letters were placed strategically so clearly he can navigate our flat well too. He shot the man straight through the heart, though I need to observe the body for myself, and he uses windows to get in and out of the flat. He wears casual shoes, probably trainers and he's had them for a while. In the week before the last letter, he had been to Waterloo, Marylebone, some sort of muddy backstreet and also Regents Park, according to the mud and pollen residue he's left behind. He's a size 10 feet. That's all I know and it's not enough!"

"Sherlock you know more than the whole of Scotland Yard put together! And you say you're in the dark?"

"I _am_!" I said, frustrated.

"Sherlock, I think the reason you're finding it hard is because you're letting the worry of John getting hurt cloud your vision! You need to focus! And telling him will honestly help!"

"Fine!" I snap, "Fine I'll tell him!"

"Good," Mycroft looked satisfied, and he flicked his hand at me.

"I'll do what I can Sherlock, but there's only so much I can do! Now go, tell John everything!"

I got up and checked the time. It was 5.00. Plenty of time to get back then.

Only it wasn't.

When I got back, John was sitting in his armchair, arms crossed, frowning at me.

"Do you want to tell me what you've been doing this morning Sherlock? Or are you going to just ignore me like you have the last couple of days?"

I blew out a deep breath. Now was the time to tell him everything.

_A/n: I hope it was ok, a review or two would be lovely! Xxx_

_Oh and for anyone who's interested, I put up a new one shot, __**How To Make You Laugh**__, so if you want, go check it out! _

_Anyway, I hope it was ok! I'll try to update soon! Xxx _


	5. Chapter 5 Understanding

Chapter 5- Understanding

_A/n: Thank you to mvignal, Sherlocked in my Heart, and CeciLovesReading for reviewing my last chapter I'm really glad you like it so far!_

_To everyone else, I hope you are enjoying it, and I would love to hear what you think! _

_Here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy Xxx _

JW

The look on Sherlock's face as he saw me sitting there waiting for him told me all I needed to know.

He was keeping something from me.

After a while of living with him, I had learnt to read most of his faces. Today, it was guilty.

For one infuriating moment, as he just stood there, seemingly frozen to the ground by the doorway, I thought that he was just going to shrug it off as he had the last few times I had detected something was wrong, and proceed to ignore me for the rest of the day.

I could put up with anything. Experiments, pacing, bloody violins, his rudeness and some arrogance, though that had died down after his… his fall.

But one thing I just _couldn't _deal with was silence and getting ignored by my best friend, whom I was still adjusting to the idea of having him back and back for good.

It didn't help with my trust issues.

But then he sighed, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes, brows furrowed.

"Okay," he said quietly, "okay,"

And he came over, and sat opposite me, in his armchair.

I was stunned. Wherever he had been, and I was hoping he was about to enlighten me on that, it had obviously made him think a little bit about what I was feeling.

There was a long silence; he seemed to struggle a little with how to phrase it. Christ was it really that bad?

"I went to see Mycroft," he said finally, "to talk to him about Moran,"

My eyebrows shot up, in danger of disappearing above my hairline. Had I just heard that correctly? Had he _really _gone to see _Mycroft _of all people?

"Ok?" I hadn't really meant it as a question, but I was so surprised, I couldn't help it, "why?"

His head was in his hands again, clearly distressed. It was obvious that whatever was worrying him, he really didn't want to share it with me. I felt fleetingly ashamed, before reprimanding myself. If he trusted me, he had to tell me.

"Moran was-," he paused, and cleared his throat, "Moran was really hard to track down. It took me 2 months to try and do it, and a further 2 weeks to catch him. He's… he's exceptional," he was looking down, speaking to his clasped hands, "he's very, _very _good with a rifle, and can shoot very straight, you saw how that bullet went straight through the centre of that man's heart. He was Moriarty's right hand man,"

I stared at him, a feeling of dread settling like a huge dark cloud over my head. Where was this going?

Before I could speak, however, he continued.

"While I was hunting him, it became obvious to me that he was as lethal as Moriarty, and feared just as much. Whereas Moriarty was the brain, Moran was the muscle, the one who did the killings and planted the bombs, and stole the hostages and strapped them to semtex. The one who held the rifle ready to blow up the hostages if they didn't talk, and…"

He finally raised his head, and he looked straight at me, I was startled to see how much emotion was burning in his eyes, "the one who was going to kill you if I didn't jump,"

Oh Christ! I couldn't stop the shudder that accompanied his words, or the fear that caused my heart to start jumping. To think that this man, the one sending the letters, the one with the brilliant aim, had come so close to ending my life once before and I hadn't known.

Sherlock was still talking. Now he had started, it appeared that he couldn't seem to stop the words from flowing; he was getting them all out.

"I didn't want to tell you John. I didn't want to frighten you. You have no idea how much I was affected when I found out. I knew that if I hadn't of jumped, you would be dead for sure. He wouldn't have missed, that's how good he is. Every one of his victims were hit so precisely so as they had no chance of survival. That's what would have happened to you John," he locked eyes with me, and held it there. I found I couldn't speak. Something was lodged in my throat.

"That was why I was so worried when I found out he was out of prison. I knew how close he had come. I knew that if he wanted to kill you or I, he wouldn't miss,"

He looked down again, falling silent. I couldn't do anything more than just sit there and wait for him to continue.

"We realised that, for some reason, he wants to finish what Moriarty started- destroy me- you were right about that bit," he paused again, closing his eyes tightly, as if he didn't want to see my face as he continued, "but he doesn't want to discredit me, because Moriarty already did that. He's targeting my heart now-,"

I closed my eyes, and refused to let the fear overtake me.

"He wants to kill me doesn't he?" I whispered, afraid of the answer.

Suddenly his hands were on my arms, gripping me tightly.

"I won't let him John! I promise! I won't let him come near you!" he spoke urgently, but I found I was too numb to speak.

"I promise John, I promise! He won't come near you!"

"Sherlock," I said quietly, frankly relieved that my voice had come back, "Sherlock let me go,"

He obliged, I felt his hands disappear. I opened my eyes, took a deep breath.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" I whispered.

"I didn't want to frighten you John, I'm sorry, I really am,"

"You mean you don't trust me do you?" I clarified quietly for him.

Silence. I passed a hand over my face, put up my guard.

"Sherlock what will it take for you to trust me? What will it take? You just keep leaving me in the dark! Always! You expect me to be fine with that?"

"I-,"

"No, no, no more," I leant forward, and forced him to look at me.

"You have to promise me that from now on, you will tell me everything, and I mean _everything_, you got that? I'm not getting left behind again. I'm not letting you leave again, ok? If you trust me, Sherlock, you have to promise me," I didn't mean to sound so forceful, but I couldn't help it. I just felt numb, and hurt too. To think that even after all we'd been through, he still didn't trust me.

This silence lasted so much longer than the others, the tension was like ice in the air, seeping into everyone and everything. I didn't know how much more I could take of it.

"I promise," came Sherlock's voice, "I promise that I'll tell you everything from now on,"

And for the first time in weeks, I actually smiled.

_A/n: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I will try to update really soon! A review or two would be lovely! Xxx _


	6. Chapter 6 The Window

Chapter 6- The Window

_A/n:_ _honestly, I don't know what happened. I'm really, really sorry about the wait. But here it is finally. Sorry again, hope you enjoy xxx_

Things seemed, relievingly, to go back to normal the next day, which was weird after the weeks of silence and tension. After falling asleep, shattered and on edge, in my chair, I woke up to a spectacularly loud and exuberant Sherlock who was decorating the wall with an array of bullets.

Funnily enough, I actually didn't mind at all. I just let him get on with it. It wasn't as if Mrs Hudson was here anymore. And it was such a nice change to have the normal Sherlock back. I yawned.

"John," he said cheerfully, as he saw me watching him. He waved the gun at me, "I found the gun!"

"So I can see," I smiled. Really, I wasn't bothered at all. He looked surprised at my reaction, but decided to continue anyway. I watched him happily for a while, before realising that perhaps letting him have free reign over the gun wasn't really the best idea after all. Pretty soon, the wall would be non existent.

"Ok, that's enough now," I reached over to pull the gun out his hand, but he swerved away from me, gun held as far away as he could. He pulled a face.

"But this is fun," he protested, "and it helps me think,"

"Oh?" there was no way I was letting him keep the gun. I army tackled him on the sofa, and pressed his arm down forcefully, but still, the gun evaded my grip. He rolled on to his side to make it harder for me, "and what are you thinking about?"

"Anything- everything, " he somehow managed to shrug even though I had him in a headlock in my quest to reach the gun.

"Sherlock!" I cried, finally exasperated, "this is childish!"

"Says the man who's got his arm around my neck," he scoffed, though finally relenting, and passing me the gun. I sighed in relief, and released him, clambering off the sofa awkwardly.

He was silent for a moment, whilst I emptied the cartridge, and hid the remaining bullets, but then,

"I think I've got a lead,"

My head snapped up, and I nearly dropped the gun.

"You what?" I spluttered.

"A lead, I think I have one,"

I stared at him for long time, before I regained use of my tongue.

"And?"

He looked at me vacantly, "and what?"

I sighed impatiently, "and what are you thinking?"

He blinked rapidly, and then jumped up, heading over to the window and dragging me with him. He pushed me in front so that I was so close to the glass my nose was almost touching it.

"It's so obvious, I can't believe I missed it the first time," he hissed furiously to himself, hands still firmly in place on my shoulders, "now John, what do you see?"

I peered out of the window, I saw the flat opposite, the busy street crammed with people, the red car pulled up on the side of the road. Just a normal day.

"I see Baker Street," I told him, and he snorted.

"You don't say?"sarcasm flowed thick in his voice, "look closer, what else do you see?"

God I hated it when he did this to me, he really made me feel stupid, though I suppose, that wasn't hard.

I looked out to the street again, trying to imagine what Sherlock would see, trying to see with his reasoning. I saw the people on the street, the young girl and the mom who looked tired and sad. The red car, with the woman on the phone, drumming her fingers on the wheel. The flat opposite, the dirty window at the same level as ours, curtains drawn. I saw...

Huh?

I glanced up again, at the window. It was midday, why would they close the curtains?

"The- the curtains?" I pointed out quizzically, "they're closed?"

"Good! And what does that mean?"

"Umm," I bit my lip, furrowing my brow. Why would someone close the curtains at midday?

"Coz they're... Light sensitive? I dunno," I shrugged, and he sighed, plainly irritated.

"Listen, those curtains do not open, they've been like that for weeks, so either it's abandoned..." he trailed off, as if waiting for me to catch on.

"-or someone wants to make it look like that?" I questioned. Sherlock beamed.

"Good John! Took you long enough to get there, but good anyway," he released me and started winding his scarf around his neck.

"What the- what are you doing?" I spluttered, as he tossed me my coat.

"We need to check it out John! I've been thinking about it all morning, and it's the only possible way to get a proper clue! It's the first clue we've had for weeks!" on went his coat, and I was reminded suddenly of the times before the... The fall, when days were always about rushing about, running around London like lunatics. I blinked.

"But you're in hiding," I said lamely. He wrinkled his nose.

"being I'm hiding is boring, plus no one will see, if they're not looking for it,"

And then, before I could comprehend much more, I was pushed roughly out the door, until I found myself blinking in the winter light. Sherlock wasted no time, and ran across the road, narrowly missing an on coming car. I cursed quietly. The man was going to give me a heart attack one of these days. Honestly.

I waited until the road was quiet, and then followed suit, finding Sherlock around the back of the house, perched on a ledge, the bitter wind ruffling his hair. He spotted me and pointed at the window, looking satisfied about something.

"Look here John, fingerprints all over it, someone opens and closes this regularly,"

"So it's not abandoned then," I remarked.

"Obviously," he peered a little closer, teetering on the edge of the ledge, making me rather anxious.

I bit my lip and refrained from saying anything, knowing he would probably snap at me if I did.

He started gently prising around the edges of the window.

"He uses it so often he wouldn't have bothered to shut it," he muttered so quickly I hardly caught it, "he doesn't use the door, he wants to give the impression that this is abandoned,"

"Wait-" I ran a hand through my hair, confused, "you think this is Moran?"

"It's stupid to make assumptions," he said softly, "but we have proof," he leant forward some more, and breathed on a small part of the glass, fogging it up. Fingerprints showed up clear as day, all over the bottom of the window.

"Brilliant," I breathed.

"Call Lestrade, tell him we need to do some DNA checks,"

"I haven't got a phone," I reminded him.

He rolled his eyes and tossed me his, attention still focused completely on the window.

I unlocked it, and after a moment, decided not to phone him and texted him instead, and half an hour later, we were back in the flat, with Lestrade, who looked incredibly stressed, but quite relieved.

"Thank bloody god you found a lead," he said, "I was really starting to give up hope,"

"What, did you expect Moran to be one of those morons you see every day?" Sherlock scoffed, "it took me months! Me!"

Lestrade grimaced, "I thought that with your brother being 'all powerful' and all, it would be easier," he sighed, and put the package containing the fingerprint DNA in his jacket pocket, "We'll get this done straight away,"

Sherlock nodded; after a sharp look from me, "thank you,"

"I just bloody hope you're right,"

"I'm nearly always right," Sherlock snapped back.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and shifted his weight to his other foot, crossing his arms.

"We found another body," he said, trying to stay casual, "it hasn't been a week yet,"

"The same as before?" I asked.

"Exactly- the man's name was John,"

"He's speeding up, telling us out time is running out," Sherlock muttered to himself, "the question is, what are we supposed to be doing that requires a time limit?"

"Unless he's counting down to the finale," Lestrade said grimly.

"My death," I finished for him quietly. Sherlock looked up, wide eyed, and met mine. I smiled tightly, trying to show him that I wasn't afraid, when to be honest, I really was.

I don't think I fooled him.

Lestrade looked pale, "Sherlock, you need to stop him," he whispered.

"Don't worry," he replied, "I will- you need to get me those results as soon as you can, and then we can get to work,"

I blinked. I think I missed quite a lot.

"Sorry, what? What do you mean?"

He flashed me a grin, "get to work setting our trap,"

_A/n: hope you liked this chapter, a review or two would be great xxx_


	7. Chapter 7 Case Notes

Chapter 7- Case notes

_A/n: I'm going to try and keep this note brief- thank you to everyone who reviewed Monday. Hope everyone likes it so far. Enjoy this chapter xxx _

SH

When John went left to go to bed, leaving me alone in the darkened room, the first thing that my mind raced to was the current situation. The window and the fingerprints and the DNA test that I had sent Lestrade to do. If it was Moran's DNA, then it was perfect.

To be honest, and I had to admit it really, Moran was pretty clever to choose the flat opposite. It was a place that we were less likely to look at. He had made it look abandoned, with the grime and the closed curtains, and only using the back window. Hopefully, it was Moran, and not just my mind looking for the clever answer again. I grimaced slightly, remembering Moriarty's game.

No, it _had_ to be Moran. And if it was, I made the whole thing so much easier.

I wasn't tired. I never was whilst working on a case, so this was completely, and refreshingly normal for me. Perhaps I could do something constructive with my time…

I sat up on the sofa, and gazed around the empty room. The wall, which was now completely full of bullet holes, looked very bare, and absolutely screaming out to be covered in the case notes. My lips twitched. I could certainly comply with that. It would be a good distraction anyway.

I scrambled off the sofa, and went over to the cupboard in the corner. John thought I didn't know, but of course, I observe everything. Even an idiot could have seen that John had fished out the letters from the bin and hid them in this cupboard. I looked at them all, crinkled from when I had balled them up, but still, the writing was legible.

I suppose I should thank John for saving them. Perhaps I could try and deduce more from them. Though I wasn't sure what I would find if I did.

I found a ball of blue tack, from the kitchen and rolled it gently in my hand for a while, wondering how to put them up so that they made sense, and then finally stuck them all to the wall, arranging them neatly in order of the appearance. That felt so much better! Seeing them laid out like this.

Well, it always helped before, and I was hoping it could help now. I stood back and observed them all together. Perfect.

Now for the other, if not rather fragmented clues.

The ones that I had managed to collect from what we has so far.

I first turned to the body or bodies actually.

I collected them all from the kitchen table.

I stuck up the first pictures, the one of John Evans, along with Lestrade's and my own case notes. There were also close ups of the words on his arm, the bullet hole in his heart and the bullet itself, that had been dug out of the wall afterwards. I studied it closely. John would know from sight what gun that had come from.

Good.

I picked up a pen and scrawled a quick note, _victim from Kensington, killed in Hyde Park, close. _I tacked it up, and put that, along with the picture, in its place on the large map of London I had.

I switched on my laptop; it welcomed me with a cheerful tune, and I emailed Lestrade, asking for the pictures and notes from the recent, second murder, which he had mentioned earlier. I scrawled another note on the back of a receipt while I waited; _second murder came in a smaller interval. Suggests time limit? Or count down? _And tacked that up too, underneath the letters.

A ping and Lestrade had come back, with the attached pictures. I immediately printed them off and studied each one carefully.

Yes, the writing was carved into his arm again, the same words, obviously. There was a bullet hole in his heart, in the same place as the one before. Lestrade had been right, the murders were identical. I glanced at the case notes, scanning for the important things amongst the ridiculous twaddle that Anderson and co thought was useful.

The man's name was John Smith, and he was from Waterloo.

Interesting.

I wrote this down and stuck the picture in its place on the map too. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, I found my favourite ball of white cord, and connected the pictures, sticking it in place with some drawing pins from the kitchen. Then I did a quick measurement. 2.1 miles between them.

That's all I had so far...

No, wait.

I stepped back and frowned thoughtfully. The letters...

The paper for each one was different. I hadn't noticed before. Huh, good job John _had _saved them then.

After a moment, I deduced that the paper from the first letter had been made in mass production, somewhere in Surrey, I couldn't pinpoint where exactly. The second one was from Waterloo, the third from Euston, and the forth from Battersea. I connected these together with individual pieces of string. And, after a moment's hesitation, I connected everything so far to the flat opposite. There was no pattern so far, but I was hoping, as more clues were uncovered, that one would be found soon. Of course, if my hunch about the flat was wrong, I could immediately correct it. But I was almost certain about it, even if the others didn't have as much faith in me.

And then, there was his handwriting.

I had done a study on the meaning of handwriting once, a while back, and no one had thought it was important. But now, well, this could help me. This could help me quite a lot. I leant close to the first letter.

Written in pencil, quite a fine tip. I frowned- HB? Interesting.

Right slant on the writing- indicates confidence. He knows how to mess with us. The scruffy joints, sometimes very disjointed. Not a very patient man -then can't be bothered with being neat.

Or he had been in a hurry.

I turned my attention to the second note. The writing was very similar.

But...

I squinted. It was slightly different. Only just. But this was formed a lot more neatly. Anyone less astute would never notice it. But I did. And I could draw only on conclusion.

It had been written by a different person.

I pursed my lips in a tight line.

Why would he write the first note, and then get someone else to write the second? It just didn't make sense to me.

I scanned the third and fourth letter. Both had similar but slightly different writing to the others. Some were more slanted, others had sharper points. Different.

Different.

Why would he choose people to write the letters just to get different writing? So I couldn't pinpoint him?

He was clever, dammit.

"What are you...? What are you doing?" John's voice came from behind me, and I turned towards him. He looked tired, and confused. I frowned. John shouldn't be up yet. Maybe he heard me messing around.

"It's my case notes," I said, as though it should be obvious. He scowled.

"Right, or was it just to cover up the bullet holes you decorated it with yesterday," John muttered under his breath.

"As I recall," I retorted stonily, "you actually let me use the gun for a while,"

John sighed, and crossed his arms, "so what had you found out?" he asked instead.

"Why don't you go back to sleep,"

He shrugged, "can't sleep, need a distraction," he mumbled.

I grinned, willing to let the argument drop.

"Well," I spread my arm out wide, hand lightly skimming each picture, each letter.

"Look John, look at the bullet holes! You can recognise guns and their bullets, yes?"

"Yeah..." He sounded a little apprehensive.

"What gun made these wounds?"

"Umm," John cleared his throat, as he did when he wanted to do something important or impressive, and he came to stand by me. I pointed first to the close up of the bullet that killed the first victim, "that one,"

"Umm ok," he studied it closely, "that was made by a Barrett .50 calibre, I think, it's a very famous sniper rifle," he glanced up at me, "That sounds like Moran to me,"

"Indeed it does," I flashed him a grin. He looked pleased with himself. I swept over to the table, where my laptop sat waiting. I typed in the gun name quickly, and the picture came up.

Yes, it was definitely Moran's gun, I remembered it well.

"Thank you John," I said quietly, printing off the picture, and pinning that up too, "is it the same for the other one too?" I tapped the corresponding picture quickly.

He leaned in again, "yes,"

"Well, it looks like Moran does the shooting himself," I said, frowning, "but why does he get other people to write the notes?"

John yawned.

"On that note, I'm going back to bed- night,"

I rolled my eyes. Trust John for being so _human _when I needed him the most.

For the rest of the night, I stared at all the case notes I had collected, trying to make sense of it all. For I was very close now. I just needed the last few facts…

_A/n: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, have a great Christmas, and a review or two would be lovely xxx _


	8. Chapter 8 New Body

New Body

_A/n: sorry about the long wait, I really am, I've just been focusing on other things. I'm sorry!  
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, it means a lot to me!  
Enjoy this chapter! Xxx_

Being hopeful was good. Especially when someone was out to kill you. Especially when he kept sending threatening letters and messages, and made you so jittery, you almost jumped at your own shadow. Hope was great.  
Sherlock was hopeful, and his attitude had changed dramatically. He seemed to start enjoying the case again, behaving like it was any ordinary case, and it wasn't our own lives in danger. The case notes were all up on the wall, the clues he'd found from the flat, like the mud from his trainers, and what not, we're also up now, joining the intricate web of string and photographs and making it all the more complex.  
At 1.00, Lestrade called, and I was made to pick up the phone, even though it was Sherlock's, and it was sitting right next to him while he was busy thinking.  
"Hello?"  
"John? Listen, there's been a new body, I need Sherlock down here straight away, I think it will help him with the case, you know what he's like,"  
"You know it's not really going to work," I warned him; in my peripheral vision, I saw Sherlock look up, looking at me quizzically. I shrugged.  
"It will, tell him Donovan's not on this case,"  
"Who is it?" Sherlock asked me, talking over Lestrade.  
"Lestrade, they've found a new body," I said quietly, covering the mouth piece with my fingers, "he wants you to go down there,"  
He nodded, "what's the address?"  
My mouth dropped.  
"John? You still there?" Lestrade asked.  
"Umm, yeah," I moved the phone back into place, "what's the address?"  
"That easily?" He sounded suprised.  
"Yeah, apparently, being cooped up has its affects,"I laughed, "where are we meeting you?"  
"Umm, you got a pen?"  
I scrambled over to the table, pen in hand, switching the phone to my right ear, "yeah,"  
"Ok, it's 49 Harewood Avenue, you know by the Marylebone tube station?"  
"Yeah, got it," I gave Sherlock the paper, and he jumped up, heading for his scarf.  
"See you in a bit,"  
I put the phone down, and continued to gaze at Sherlock.  
"You're actually going? None of that, 'I'm still in hiding,' stuff?" I attempted to clarify, stunned.  
"This is Moran, John!" He said, irritation colouring his tone, "this is our chance to find out more!"  
I sighed. I suppose he was right.  
"Come on!" He beckoned me impatiently.  
"You're not going to just catch a cab are you?"  
I found myself being dragged carelessly out of the flat and onto the street. Christ, I was surprised the press hadn't noticed yet, with how he had been flinging himself around lately. Surely someone should notice that Sherlock was still alive, and flouncing around London like nothing had happened.  
And as it happens, we did catch a cab. My first cab since that night (or morning really) that Sherlock had suddenly appeared, and told me he was still alive. My first cab with Sherlock since he had jumped. God.

By the time we got to the address, it was strangely empty, with only Lestrade and a couple of young officers who I didn't know, though I was pretty sure they knew us. Despite the 5 months he was gone, I still seemed to be famous. I still had people stop me in the streets and ask if I was 'that blogger who was friends with the fraudulent detective'. That was part of the reason why I stopped going out, and confined myself to my little flat. I shook the thought away, and focused on the scene in front of me.  
A body lying on the street, spread eagled, forearm facing the sky, branded with the customary warning, a bullet hole through his heart, blood pooling on the ground. Scarlet. Bright.  
Reminiscent...  
"This body isn't the problem," said Lestrade suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts and into the present. I needed to stop doing that really, "it's where he did it that's getting us,"  
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.  
I looked around. It seemed obvious to me, there were large houses lining the street. Any one of them could be used as a shooting post. I think the range for the rifle, which was about 1800 metres, allowed for most of the houses near the body to be used for the post.  
"Well, we initially thought it was the house directly opposite, but now..."  
"It's not the house opposite," Sherlock butted in immediately, leaning over the body to have a closer look, "look at the angle at which the bullet entered,"  
"Exactly," Lestrade finished, looking exasperated, " so now we don't know,"  
"Is it important you know? We haven't been able to find anything for the other killings, what makes this one different?"  
"He usually chooses much more deserted places, with a further range, that's why," Lestrade said, "this one is more of a risk for him,"  
Sherlock looked up from his intent peering, "John,"  
I headed over and crouched beside him.  
"How long would you say he's been here?" He asked at top speed, almost as though it was an after thought, whilst his hands searched around the pockets of the mans clothes.  
I studied him closely, measuring the amount of blood lost and the clotting around the wound.  
"Not very long, I would say about 2-3 hours," I said finally, slowly, my eyes scanning the rest of the body.  
I noticed bruising around the wrists, moving up to the elbow, made in a strange line-like pattern up his arm, as though something had been twisted around it tightly and kept there.  
I frowned, they were much older, probably had been there for over a week.  
"Sherlock, have you seen this bruising?" I murmured, highlighting it with my fingers, gently skimming over the pattern, "it looks as if he's been- I dunno- tied up? Had something wrapped around his arm?"  
"Yes I know," Sherlock replied, just as quietly, before looking up to Lestrade.  
"It seems that this victim had been held captive for a while, tied to a chair using metal cord, judging by the pattern made on his wrists and ankles-,"  
Upon his words, i went to check his ankles, finding that Sherlock was correct, though that was no surprise.  
"-So Moran actually kept this one captive, and he may have done so with the others too, we need to see them Lestrade, I need to see them," Sherlock had finished his sentence at top speed by the time I was actually paying attention. I blinked, taken aback, and straightened up.  
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.  
"We can try, I dunno if they've already been taken care of,"  
"Good, and I need you to search for all his, and the other's family links, find out any information as to where they were the day they were killed," Sherlock had his phone out and started texting someone, probably Molly, before handing the phone to me, "take some pictures, I need them for the wall,"  
Lestrade looked at us oddly, and I realised what that sounded like to someone who didn't know what Sherlock had done to the wall. I grinned, shrugged, and moved closer to the body again.  
I took pictures of the bullet wound, the ankles and wrists, a whole one, and was just about to take another one of the wound when his phone started vibrating in my hand, almost making me drop it in surprise.  
I stared at the screen- the number came up as unknown.  
I glanced over to Sherlock, but he was already too far away to answer it himself.  
Looking back at the screen, I wondered whether it was just one of the those stupid automated ones, about bank loans and crap.  
Yes, that was probably it.  
I sighed, and pressed decline; the phone went still and silent. I pushed it in my pocket, I would give it to Sherlock later.  
As I headed out, under the tape and went to catch up with the now small, distant figure of Sherlock, the phone started vibrating again. I stopped, and pulled it out.  
It was unknown, again, calling Sherlock.  
I bit my lip. Automated messages only rang once.  
Whoever this was, it was urgent.  
After a momentary debate with myself, I finally decided to answer the call, at the very least I could pass on the message to Sherlock, though who it could be baffled me completely.  
"Hello?"  
There was silence at the end of the line, and I wondered for a moment of I had been disconnected.  
"Hello?" I asked again.  
I heard someone draw in a deep, shaky breath.  
"I'm glad it was you who answered the phone... I was thinking I would have to get this- this bitch to act for me, which probably wouldn't end well," it was Sarah, though it wasn't. Sarah was talking, but she sounded absolutely terrified. I felt my whole body stiffen.  
"Sarah? Are you ok?"  
"Sarah is fine," said Sarah's trembling voice, and shivers went down my spine. Someone was there, and was making her talk. Copying Moriarty. I remembered my own ordeal, getting covered in Semtex and made to speak while listening to Moriarty in my ear.  
It was Moran, I realised. It had to be.  
And he had Sarah.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely x_


	9. Chapter 9 Trouble

Trouble

_A/n: again, I'm sorry for the long wait, it took a long time to perfect the next few chapters and I guess that's why. So I just hope it's worth it now, right?_

_So enjoy xxx_

SH

"So we know the bullet came in from an angle, and that should tell us the area from where the shot came from. Have you checked the CCTV footage?" I asked Lestrade, as we headed to the police car. He ran a hand through his hair, "no not yet, I got some people checking now, but I don't think they have anything. At least not now,"

"Keep checking," I said quietly, my mind racing ahead. The most important thing that I needed to do was check the other bodies, and see if there were similar bruisings on them, though I failed to understand how everyone, including me, had missed them the first time around. Though I had only been going on pictures. Lestrade had actually seen the bodies. Disgusting really, how such incompetence could be ignored so easily. I shook my head slightly.

"What is it?" Lestrade had noticed that at least. I rolled my eyes.

"Nothing, I need to see the bodies, I'm waiting for her reply…" I trailed off slightly, realising that John still had my phone.

And that he was no -where near me, not like he usually was. I checked over my shoulder. What?

"Who's reply?" Lestrade was asking, as I ground to a halt. I shook my head, hand out to stop him talking. John wasn't behind me. He wasn't anywhere.

He had definitely followed me hadn't he? I'd checked before, and he'd been walking, albeit slowly, but definitely following.

But now, he was no where to be seen.

"Have you seen John?" I asked, forcing myself to stay calm. He must have doubled back to take another look at the body, perhaps he had found something. But I couldn't see him.

"What? I thought he was…" as Lestrade turned, he stopped too, seeing the deserted street stretching out behind us, no sign of life at all.

"What the hell?" Lestrade spluttered, "I'm sure he was…"

Passed a hand over my mouth, pushing down the growing feeling of emotion curling in my stomach. I wasn't sure what it was, but I definitely recognised it as the feeling i'd had twice before- when John had been in danger.

I shouted out to the police officer walking near by, talking through his phone.

"Have you seen John?" I yelled at him, causing him to look up, startled, phone hanging at his ear, "you know, small with brownish hair?"

He too, jerked his thumb behind, before, like us, realising that the street was empty.

I shook my head. This couldn't be happening.

"Where's John! We need to find John! He wouldn't have just left! He couldn't! he wouldn't…" I started mumbling, panicked. I started back down the street, heart pounding, shouting his name, wondering where he could be. Wondering why he would have left.

"Sherlock, stop, calm down!" Lestrade was there, "he must have found a lead on Moran or something,"

And suddenly everything ground to a halt. My worst fears coming to light in a short, terrifying moment. Even time had stopped. There was a rushing in my ears, and I could feel my heart thundering.

Moran.

"It's Moran," I gasped, my voice coming out impossibly quiet, hand reaching out to find something to steady myself. It turned out to be Lestrade's shoulder.

"What?" Lestrade asked, disbelievingly.

I swallowed, scared to even say the words. The words that I swore to myself wouldn't happen, "it's Moran, it has to be, Moran has John,"

As I said it, I saw the colour drained completely out of Lestrade's face. He swore violently, and then he shouted his team. I couldn't seem to do anything. I felt numb.

Moran wanted to kill John.

I just had to stop him before he did.

"Guys, we need to issue a full search for Dr John Watson, you've all seen him, we suspect that he's been…" I zoned out of Lestrade's instructions and began to run, down the street, heading for Baker Street. The first place I had to look was the house opposite.

I didn't even stop to think. There was no time to think. Not anymore.

John was in danger, and I needed to find him.

And find him before it was too late.

JW

Everything was foggy, heavy, dark. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, and the drowsiness I was feeling. I dragged myself back through the strange fog, and felt pain. On my head, on my wrists, on my back. I felt a little blood trickle down my face. I'd been hit on the head then. Knocked out.

I tried to remember what had happened but I couldn't. I couldn't remember much at all. Just figures, noises. A phone call…

"Rise and shine Johnny boy," a low voice teased, somewhere near me, "I don't want you to miss the finale,"

…

_A/n: I hope it was worth the wait! X _


	10. Chapter 10 Unfamiliar Surroundings

Chapter 10- Unfamiliar Surroundings

_A/n: so here is the next chapter! I hope you enjoy it! X_

JW

I had no idea where I was.  
Everything ached and I wanted desperately to move my hands. The ropes that bound them to the back of the chair were tight and unforgiving, wrapped more than once around my wrists and coiling up to my elbow. My arms hurt like hell. I was thirsty too, which didn't help, and I was incredibly lightheaded, probably due to both lack of water and the blow to the head I had received sometime before I gained consciousness.  
I tried to think back, to understand how I had got into this position. Tied to a chair in an unfamiliar room. Blindfolded.  
But every time I tried it felt as if some strange white mist was clouding my memory.  
I closed my eyes, frowning deeply. I had been at a crime scene with Sherlock, the body found was another one of Moran's victims, the writing on the arm, and bruising just like mine indented the wrists. I remembered Lestrade's conversation, how they has no idea where Moran had taken the shot, first believing it to be the house opposite, tans then reconsidering due to the angle the bullet went in. Sherlock had wanted to check the other bodies...  
My head started to pound badly, drawing a muffled groan from my lips. I had to remember. I had to remember.  
I'd had Sherlock's phone in my hand. It had started to vibrate. An unknown number calling.  
The phone call... Must have been something important. My memories were getting more confusing now. Whoever had struck the blow to my head had some power. I shook it frantically to clear my thoughts.  
The phone call had been from a woman. I had been fearful. I remember turning, listening to the voice, which had switched to a man soon afterwards. He has told me to move to the house opposite...  
"Now turn doctor, you see that house there? Number 32? Walk in. Thats it. Doing what I say is the only way to save your precious Sarah..."  
I startled as the memory came back, clear and fresh. The voice had been low and threatening. I remembered how I had turned back slightly, wondering whether I should call Sherlock, who was too busy talking to realise where I was. But the voice had interrupted me again, reminding me that he could kill Sarah at any moment. I had stepped into the house.  
And that's where everything went blank. I must have been struck on the head immediately.  
It had been a trap.  
But he had Sarah, still. And he had captured me so he could lure Sherlock in as well. In one swift move, he had changed it all, lead us all to him like lambs to slaughter.  
The new body had been a trick. That's why it had been different. He had chosen the enclosed street to lead us close to his hideout, or one of his hideouts anyway, but not close enough so as we knew what house he was in. He knew that the presence of many houses would confuse Lestrade, so he would call us. and even then he was sure that Sherlock couldn't know what house he was in. God he was clever. And when Sherlock gave me his phone, Moran had guessed that, relying on Sherlock's predictable actions. He had made the phone call. He knew that Sarah was one of the few people who I would have wanted to save the most. He had played on my weakness and guilt for bringing her into my confusing life. By doing that he ensured that he had me, and so he could get Sherlock as well.  
God, we had been so stupid. After weeks of taunting letters, lulling us into a false sense of security, he had been keeping us off his trail and making a plan.  
All of this became so clear to me, whilst sitting, aching and confused, in that chair, and I wondered why I hadn't realised it before. I just hoped that Sherlock would figure it out before he too came to save me.  
I remembered our conversation a few weeks before:  
'_He wants to kill me doesn't he?'  
'He won't get to you John, I promise...'_  
Moran wanted to kill me. That much was certain. He wanted to finish the game Moriarty had started. He was just delaying the process. He wanted Sherlock to see.  
My head was extremely painful now, and I forced myself to stop thinking about his motives. Thinking was for Sherlock anyway. I hoped he wouldn't come. If he came it was all over. I remembered how he had said he had a plan. I hoped he used that plan now. I really did.  
I tried to flex my wrists, with minimal results. I opened my eyes again, confronted with the black rough material of the blindfold, pressing almost uncomfortably on my eyes. It was better to keep them closed. And god, I was so thirsty.  
I shifted a little in my chair, trying to stop my legs from going numb.  
I wasn't frightened. I was a soldier, I was taught how to handle situations like this. I just needed to remain calm, and hold together, wishing and hoping and preying that Sherlock didn't do anything stupid.  
Because he had a knack for doing that whenever my safety was involved.

_A/n: a review or two would be lovely x_


	11. Chapter 11 The House

Chapter 11- The House

SH

_A/n: I know, I know I said Monday or Wednesday. I'm sorry! I'm also sorry for the length of this chapter. But I hope it's ok._

I was out of breath when I finally made it to Baker Street. I stood on the pavement panting, ignoring the pain of a stitch in my side and staring up at the house that was opposite my flat. Had it only been a few days ago when John and I had discussed the window?  
I didn't stop any longer. I darted around to the sides of the house, to the window with the fingerprints. Lestrade hadn't got back to me on them yet, but it was worth a shot. It had to be Moran's fingerprints. And I was almost always right.  
My fingers found the edges, the seam between the rotting wooden window sill and the glass, and I gently pushed upwards, feeling my fingers latch on and the window give way.  
It slides up noiselessly. I breath a small sigh of relief.  
Crouched onto the wall, I studied the window closely for anything that would indicate recent use. Yes, more recent fingerprints.  
I wasn't ready to carry out my plan. I was far from it.  
But with John in danger I couldn't see another choice. Without a second thought, I slipped in through the window. It was large and I slipped in easily, my feet finding the smooth work surface below the window. It was Large enough for someone like Moran.  
The room I slipped into was dark and old, the smell of dust and damp wood filling my nostrils, hanging heavy in the air. It seemed like it used to be a kitchen, or laundry room, but long since gone out of use.  
I scanned the room, my eyes picking out scuff marks on the wall, the rope in the corner, the bowing shelf where it hadn't been able to take the weight of a person. Someone had been here.  
I remembered the room upstairs. The one with the closed curtains. I headed cautiously into the depths of the dark house.  
It was very cold, and foreboding. A feeling of uneasiness settled over me. I kept my ears pricked for any signs of a struggle. I stepped softly down the corridor, the wallpaper peeling sadly off the walls. A gaping doorway lead into another room, bathed in shadows.I slipped past, making as little noise as possible. A narrow staircase ascended to my right.  
I found the room, completely empty save a piece of paper in the middle of the room. Folded once. My mind flashed back to Sky, the letter she had given me. The letter that had started everything. This one was so similar, it couldn't be a coincidence.  
I picked it up. The paper was the same material as the first. Made in mass production. The ripped and frayed edges looked as if it had been ripped out if a notebook of some kind.  
I unfolded it carefully.  
A picture slipped from between the white folds. I watched it flutter to the ground gracefully, landing face up on the cold wooden floor. I turned my head to squint at it.  
And it almost made me feel sick. For some reason.  
It was John. Bound and blindfolded and gagged, tied to a chair in the middle of an empty room. He was unconscious, blood stained his face. My heart throbbed painfully, breathing quickened. He wasn't here. But the roomed looked so familiar.  
My eyes flickered up to the white paper in my hand. And there was a note scrawled on there. With very familiar writing.

_A/n: reviews? Please? X_


	12. Chapter 12 Not A Fairytale

Chapter 12- Not A Fairytale

_A/n: I'm sorry. I haven't updated in a while. Sorry about that. So here's the next chapter. I'm afraid this one is quite dark and quite short too so sorry about that as well. I'm saying sorry a lot. Anyway I'll let you get on with the reading! X_

JW

"Rise and shine Doctor," the voice was there when I woke up. The voice I had come to recognise as Moran's.  
I was shattered and aching and so goddamn thirsty it was unbelievable. Not that I could do anything about it with my mouth bound. The blindfold seemed particularly tight as well. I raised my head.  
"That's it, " he coaxed, "I would say good morning but, well, that would only apply to me," the silky voice snickered. I strained my wrists in a frugal attempt to loosen the wire. It hurt, the rope digging into my skin.  
I heard footsteps approaching me. Loud, heavy, assured footsteps of a soldier. I knew that walk.  
They got closer and closer and I stiffened.  
Suddenly the gag was loosened and the material slipped down. My mouth was free.  
I licked my dry lips and took deep lung fulls of air that didn't taste like the musty material, immediately feeling just that little bit better.  
I was determined to remain calm.  
In my head I kept thinking about what Sherlock would do. He certainly wouldn't stay here and let me walk to my death. He would find a clever way out. And I needed to too.  
In the end, I knew this had been going happen anyway, didn't I really? It had been iminant from the very first letter. All of it leading to one moment.  
"I brought you water," the voice said cheerfully. It was false. False cheer.  
I felt the rim of a bottle on my lips and I took a tentative sip.  
And then, I couldn't stop. I was just so desperate for it.  
Finally, I forced myself to stop, gasping for breath. The voice laughed cruelly.  
"Didn't want you dying too early did we?"  
I finally summoned up the courage to speak.  
"Where's Sarah. What have you done to her?"  
I got silenced by the unmistakable feel of a finger pressed roughly to my lips. I resisted the urge to bite it. That would probably end with me getting hit.  
"Too many questions, doctor," the voice purred, a hit of menace being covered up by the false brightness, "That's exactly why I gagged you in the first place. Now, stay quiet, or I'll have to make you suffer, though-" he paused, as if pondering this plan, "That would be no trouble for me," He sounded excited. That excitement that only came with madness. That excitement I had heard in Moriarty's voice too, as he strapped me to a bomb and waited for the fireworks.  
I suppressed a shudder. I was acting calm. I was acting calm.  
"I left a little note for your dear detective," the voice said conversationally, though it was trembling slightly, "left him a little puzzle for him to solve. He does like puzzles doesn't he? Little life- risking games?"  
I said nothing, my jaw clenched. He laughed at me again.  
"Don't worry doctor, I wont let you miss a second of it. You can watch him play. You can watch him, and know you can't do anything to help him. Like that poor little soldier that you couldn't stop from dying. Doesn't that hurt you doctor?"  
Fury was burning inside me. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to bloody kill this man. How the hell did he know about that?  
And still the worst wasn't over yet.  
"Doesn't it hurt?" he purred.  
"Shut the hell up," I growled at him. He snickered. I knew what he was doing. He was targeting me emotionally. Tearing the small defense I had built since Sherlock had come back apart bit by bit.  
"That soldier died, doctor. He was your friend wasn't he?"  
The memories were coming back. Flooding my mind. The blood, the sand, the heat. Watching the light fade from his green eyes. Watching him leave whilst I tried desperately to save him. To stop the blood and start his heart...  
I realised I was shaking, and he was laughing.  
"All you do doctor, is watch people die. The soldier, the detective, and now the detective again, though for real this time. There will be no false blood. No jump, just death. But don't worry, you probably won't be there to see it. Depends on my mood," he added as an afterthought.  
"What are you going to do to him?" I whispered, my voice trembling. The depression seemed to be coming back. I was sinking. I had to stop it. I couldn't give up. Not now. My heart was aching. The hole I thought had healed slightly since Sherlock came back hurt like hell.  
"He killed Jim," he said. His voice was deadly now, "so I want to watch him suffer as much as possible. That is how it's going to end. No fairy tales. No happy endings. I will make. him. suffer,"  
The footsteps disappeared and a door slammed.  
I tried hard not to get worked up. But my resolve soon broke. The panic, the fear, the loss and worse, the nightmares all came back, and left me shuddering in the dark. He hadn't put my gag back in place.  
He wanted to hear me cry.  
I refused to cry. No matter how much pain I was in emotionally at the moment.  
I twisted my wrists again, trying desperately to get them free. The rope seemed to get more painful the harder I tried. It was hopeless.  
If only I could see where I was. If only I had a phone!  
I felt useless, weak and pathetic.

_A/n: I hope you enjoyed it! A review would make my day! X_


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